Heather Brown

Wayward wife

CHAPTER ONE

It was 3:30 in the afternoon and I had nothing to do. I had finished my washing and cleaning. It would be at least a couple of hours until it was practical for me to put the TV dinners in the oven so that supper would be on the table when George walked through the door. I felt as lifeless and listless as the dust mop standing over in the corner.

There wasn't even anything worth watching on television. Nothing but soap operas at this time of day. I couldn't stand to watch them. They made me so depressed. I guess the reason was that the characters were all so unhappy. Just like me.

Suddenly itching with tension and frustration, I got up and rearranged the furniture, moving one chair here, the coffee table over there. Then I stopped in the middle of it when I realized that it was the third time I'd moved the furniture this week.

I just left the coffee table right in the middle of the living room so that there was no way you could pass through the room without stepping around or over it. At least that would give me something to think about every time I crossed the room or I'd crash my shins into it. Come to think of it, at least the pain would take my mind off my boredom.

Where were the kids? It was summer. They were out someplace, and probably wouldn't be back until dinner when their father got home. I'd already fed them lunch so they'd lost interest in me until it was time for them to eat again. I found myself wishing that they were here now, even getting into mischief, so I could yell at them. The excitement of getting angry at them would have picked me up the way I was feeling.

I was so jumpy that I couldn't sit down and remain still, so I walked around the room smoking a cigarette. The ashes fluttered to the floor, but I didn't care. If enough of them got on the rug it would be dirty enough to clean again and that would give me something to do. I looked at making a mess as sort of an investment.

When I had finished my cigarette I stopped circling the room and looked around. Suddenly I realized that I couldn't stand to be in the living room another second. I was sick of it. If I stayed here another minute I'd start smashing the furniture.

Dashing into the bedroom, I threw myself across the bed, sobbing for lack of anything better to do. But finally the tears dried up because they really weren't connected with anything specific. If I had known exactly why I was so upset maybe my grief wouldn't have been so bad. However, the fact of the matter was that I couldn't explain why I was so unhappy.

My husband George made good money. He had a good job and was willing to buy whatever I needed for myself and the house. I had the best appliances money could buy to make housekeeping a snap, and a 24-inch color television set to watch whenever I felt like it. My two children were both normal and healthy. I had a closet full of clothes. There was a station wagon out in the driveway of our beautiful ranch-style home that I could drive anywhere I wanted to.

So what was wrong with my life? I didn't know. If I had been able to identify my problems I might have been able to do something about them. As it was, I felt like I was under a spell – turned by some unseen force over which I had no control. I had everything I had thought I wanted when I'd married George at eighteen – and yet here I was practically on the verge of a nervous breakdown.